


Probably Pizza

by TheWitchBoy



Series: TimKon: Young Justice Universe [6]
Category: Teen Titans - All Media Types, Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Dates, Awkwardness, Bruce and Clark Friendship, Developing Friendships, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pizza, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Tim is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:06:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWitchBoy/pseuds/TheWitchBoy
Summary: There were a million more important questions he could have been wondering, but Tim was fixated on “when did Superboy get his ears pierced and how?”





	Probably Pizza

**Author's Note:**

> I reread my notes in Gratuitous Gala and, if anyone can recall, I said “Up next: Probably Pizza” which is 100% the reason I went ahead and actually titled this “Probably Pizza.”
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this meandering... weirdness? I know it's been months (four months!) since an installation of this series, and months (two months!) since anything YJ!verse has shown up (or any fics?). So, in spite of a bit of dissatisfaction with this, I'm putting it up.

Honestly. Shirking his duty to eat out at some no-name local pizzeria with Conner hadn’t been how Tim had seen the night going. He wasn’t complaining, of course. He just hadn’t expected his night to go from Jaws theme and press to joking around while waiting for their pizza order to get completed. None of that premade pepperoni crap.

If he was going to eat pepperoni crap, it was going to be  _fresh_ pepperoni crap.

There were probably a million more important questions he could have been wondering and thoughts he could have been having, too, but Tim was fixated on “when did Superboy get his ears pierced and how?”

What process did a Kryptonian have to go through to do something like get a piercing, anyway? Was it a Kryptonite thing or a magic thing or something else? How did a Kryptonian healing factor work with piercings, or around them? Did Conner pierce his own ears or did he get help? Tim was willing to put his money on Supergirl, Kara, for people who would be up to helping invulnerable Kryptonians pierce their ears.

Conner forced a light cough into his fist, looking from Tim to tabletop. “Uh.”

“Uh,” Tim responded, eloquent as Wally West eating his way through five Big Belly Burger burgers and three orders of fries. And a milkshake. All the while speaking too fast, backwards, and through a full mouth. So. Not very eloquent.

“Do I have something on my face?” Conner forced a little smile.

“Uh, glasses?” Tim suggested. And just. Hot damn, those glasses.

Conner shrugged, smiled again, and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. Tim was tempted to snap a picture, for the seventh time that night (he counted), and send it off to Steph. Someone needed to commiserate with Tim, because there was fair, meh, and not fair, and Conner in glasses was firmly polarized between “fair to a fault” and “not fair at all.”

“I just. Earrings.” Tim shrugged.

Self-consciously, way too self-consciously, Conner reached up and touched his earlobe.

Tim wanted to punch himself. With a wall. “I love them,” he blurted out A little too forcefully, he slammed his hands into the table, which made him jump in surprise. Conner jumped a bit, too. “I mean!” Tim felt himself sweat out a way to tone down his knee-jerk ‘I love them,’ and felt himself come up short. “Yeah…”

Lame. So lame.

Conner grinned though. A small, private grin. He brought his hand down from his earring and Tim let his gaze flick over to it. The ruby’s deep red did amazing things in contrast with Conner’s perfect skin. Tim had noticed Conner slowly acquiring a tan, over the course of the Team’s documented existence, and he got the distinct impression that the ruby would only look better and better as Conner’s complexion darkened.

Tim tried to think of something else to say, and Conner might have been doing the same thing. Relief flooded the atmosphere, making it sag between Tim and Conner, when the counter called out to them for their pizza.

Tim just barely restrained himself from thanking the Powers That Be out loud.

Conner slid out from his side of the booth with a grin. “I’ll just…” he hopped to his feet and headed over to the counter.

Tim turned to watch him go. Those pants did amazing things for Conner’s—and that was a creepy line of thought that needed to not. Conner had well-tailored pants. End of story. Tim noped away from the less than friendly advance of his thoughts. They sounded too much like stuff Steph said, anyway. And, nope. No. Wasn’t going there. Wouldn’t go there.

Shouldn’t go there. What the heck.  _Get a grip_ , Tim told himself.

Big shocker: telling himself to get a grip didn’t magically give Tim a grip. Not least because he started questioning what he was supposed to be getting a grip  _of_. His sanity? Reality? The situation? Escape routes? A backup plan? There were too many options.

Escape routes sounded promising, though.

Conner returned with the pizza on an eat-in tray.

The whole of the pizza was a trap that Ackbar would have been wary of, greasy as all hell with bacon piled on ham piled on semi-caramelized onion piled on two toppings’ worth of pineapple. The greasy Hawaiian pizza from hell. Tim’s salivary glands appreciated the pizza from hell almost too much.

“I’m so glad you’re cool with pineapple on pizza,” Conner offered. “Not everyone is.”

“Hawaiian pizza is proof that there is a God and he loves us,” Tim said, not really thinking about it.

Conner laughed, which settled pleasantly – like a jumbo cotton ball – in Tim’s gut. “Kara would probably say something along the lines of it being proof that Rao was real. Clark’s not big on pizza. Rao, sure. Pizza? Not since college, I guess.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Conner returned. He picked up one of the slices of pizza. They were huge slices that folded in the middle, though not unpleasantly. He almost lost the cheese and all the toppings when they tried to slide off the point and onto the pizza tray. Everything was so warm and fresh.

“Rao, pizza. Whatever.”

Conner took a bite of the pizza and hummed. He chewed thoughtfully, mouth closed, and swallowed before answering. “I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of resurrecting a dead alien religion, personally. Kara, I get. She was there on Krypton. She remembers stuff about Rao and the religion. Clark just kinda wants… I don’t know. Connections to his heritage.”

“You don’t?” Tim reached for a slice, as well.

“Cloning was kind of an abomination, on Krypton. From what I gather.” Conner shrugged. He looked down and contemplated his pizza. “I don’t think Rao would like me. I don’t know if I would like him, either.”

Tim hummed. He hoped it sounded encouraging and interested. It probably sounded like a small vacuum running for a second, though.

“I dunno. I guess it’s not for me. Something might be out there, but I’m just as likely to take up a human religion as a Kryptonian one. I got the blood for either, anyway.” Conner shrugged again, but it was lighter and he was smiling. “So. You said you were Jewish, right?”

“But, bacon,” Tim lifted his slice of pizza in almost a toast. “Yeah. Loosely Jewish. I was raised pretty kosher at first, I guess. But it just. Didn’t stick. Because, bacon.”

“Because bacon,” Conner grinned. “No judgement. I like bacon.”

“Right?” Tim grinned back.

“Right.”

They went back to the silence. It was less awkward, with the introduction of food into the situation, but it was still something of an uncomfortable experience that made Tim want to take up the solitary life of a hermit. Which felt very familiar, as far as impulses went.

Before Tim could get too deep into his own overthinking, and overthinking about his overthinking, the inner pocket on his blazer buzzed in warning, then started to scream at him. Or, less dramatically, his phone vibrated and then started to play “Like a Boss” at full volume.

Tim went through a full-body startle that included dropping his half-eaten second piece of pizza. Conner choked for a moment on his latest bite of ham and pineapple hell-pizza, but recovered before Tim’s startle could turn to blatant panic and worry.

“Like a Boss” continued to play as Tim wiped his fingers off on a napkin, then reached into his blazer to get the offending device. “Bruce,” Tim said.

“Bruce as in the guy you’re not related to,” Conner said. And Bruce as in Batman. Which went unmentioned because neither Conner nor Tim was stupid.

“Mm,” Tim nodded and flicked the green icon on his screen. “Yeah?”

“ _Tim_.”

“Bruce.”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“Down the street a bit, at Gotham Pizza. Don’t worry, it’s practically empty and I haven’t seen a camera or reporter, at all, since turning the corner onto the street,” Tim picked up his dropped pizza and took an ungentlemanly large bite of it. “Needed shome air,” he said through the pizza.

Bruce gave a grunt that sounded disappointed. Or constipated. It was a tossup. But there were any number of things that could have disappointed Bruce in Tim’s explanation, alone. “ _When, exactly, did you leave the gala, Tim? I haven’t seen you._ ”

“I dunno,” Tim took another bite, even though he wasn’t entirely done with the previous bite. Bad manners tended to end conversations a little bit sooner. Disgust had that kind of effect on people “Awhile, ya know? Not too long.”

Conner just watched Tim, making aborted motions toward taking a bite of his own pizza. Batman, apparently, had a palpable effect on people, even over the phone and across the table.

It was kind of cute—nope. Nope. No, not that again.

“Not too long,” Tim mumbled through the pizza, again.

“ _And why did you find it necessary to leave the gala? If I need to talk to a young lady, or_ _show a member of the press to the door, I will, of course,_ ” Bruce said. His concern was masked in formalized deadpan, but it was still comforting, of a kind. If also embarrassing. Tim didn’t need anyone, Bruce or dg in particular, to fight his battles for him.

“Nothing like that,” Tim said, swallowing a bit too quickly. He should have chewed more. “No, uh. It’s fine. I was just bored. Wanted some air. The hors d’oeuvres were really crappy. I was hungry.”

Conner gave a soft, amused snort at the littany of reasons Tim rattled off. Presumably.

Tim glanced up at him and offered a small smile in return for the laugh. “I was hungry, so I thought I’d ditch for a bit, then pop back in with no one the wiser. I haven’t abandoned you indefinitely.”

“ _I’m glad to hear it._ ” There were some snippets of background conversation that seemed to interrupt Bruce’s call, and Tim waited it out. Some of the conversation, a burble of almost-words, was almost close enough to understand, and must have been someone addressing Bruce directly. Bruce hummed as he returned his attention to Tim and the phone. “ _Clark says that Conner is with you,_ ” he said.

“Yeah. I ran into him and suggested we skip out on the boring socialite mingling,” Tim said.

Conner straightened a little, aware of his secondhand involvement in the conversation. He actually managed to take his next bite of pizza, instead of quitting when the pizza was almost up to his mouth, the next time his brought his pizza mouthward. 

“ _Is there anything you might want to tell me?_ ” Bruce asked.

Tim frowned a little. “Um.” He couldn’t think of anything. “No, I don’t think so? Why?” He glanced at Conner and received a shrug for his trouble.

Bruce sighed.

Tim felt, distinctly, as if he’d missed something relatively important.  _Was_ there something he was supposed to tell Bruce? Or should tell him?

“ _Be back_ _in twenty, Tim._ ”

“Okay, not a problem,” Tim said. “Twenty minutes,” he glanced at Conner, who nodded. Tim returned his attention to Bruce, over the phone, “Would you like me to save you some pizza?”

“ _Alfred would not approve_ _. No, thank you,_ ” Bruce said. “ _I’ll talk to you later_.”

“Goodbye,” Tim said. He nodded (force of habit), then hung up his phone and slid it back into his inside pocket. One-handed, to keep the pizza grease away from his nice clothing.

“So. Trouble?” Conner asked.

Tim was already pulling his phone back out of his pocket. “Uh, no, not really.” Though, in spite of a lack of honest trouble, his phone seemed to be lighting up with a lot of texts. It was either an emergency, or Dick was texting. Dick had no idea how to send just one or two texts. It was always half a dozen fragmented texts, if not more.

\--

**From:** **DG**

[tim where r u?]

[cant find u]

[did u leave]

[???]

[tim thats not fair]

[timmy]

[did u ditch 4 date???]

[????]

[?]

[timMY?]

[she better b hot]

[so mad at u]

\--

The timestamps were very close together, all within the last ten-ish minutes. Someone clearly couldn’t wait for an actual response. Tim sighed at his phone, silenced it, and put it back in his pocket. Though, not before sending a firm denial back to Dick.

“Trouble?” Conner asked.

“Just Dick.”

“Ah,” Conner tilted his head to the side.

“Mmhm.”

Of course, that’s where the conversation ended. Tim settled on nibbling on his slice of pizza a bit more, but the silence still felt a little more prickly than it had. It was awkward, like the first silences had been, even with the distraction of the pizza.

Tim sighed, about as quietly as he could manage, and shifted back and forth in his seat. He was full, passably so, and didn’t require any more of the pizza in his system, but he was tempted to keep eating, just to have something to do. Something, that is, besides pay attention to how long the silence was stretching and how awkward it was getting. He settled with tapping out a rhythm against the table.

Conner continued to eat until there was literally no more pizza left.

Tim wondered if watching a super eat was anything like watching a speedster eat, then nixed the thought. He’d seen Wally eat literally all the food in the Wayne Manor fridge within a five second timeframe. Conner ate at a normal pace, even if he could continue eating until there was nothing else to eat.

Conner had the last slice of pizza, half-eaten, when he cleared his throat and glanced up at Tim.

Tim met his gaze, dropped his gaze, and met his gaze, again. All in short order. Conner was smiling, hesitantly, when Tim met his eyes the second time.

“Uh,” Conner said.

“Hi,” Tim blurted out. Then he snorted. They shared a brief laugh.

“Yeah, hi,” Conner said. He smiled softly.

Tim would have been lying if he’d said his heart didn’t pick up pace a bit. Which was embarrassing. Conner could probably hear his heart beating faster.

“Uh, well,” Conner tilted his head and leaned back in his seat, pizza slice abandoned. “Did you, uh, know I have a Kryptonian name, now? Too? Clark gave it to me.”

Tim did know. Of course he did. Those dossiers didn’t read themselves when he was bored. Tim read them. And Bruce was constantly adding to them. “No, I didn’t know that,” Tim said. He leaned forward and propped his elbows up on the table. He could feel Alfred’s disapproval from the next county. “What is it?”

It was Kon-El.

“Yeah, he did,” Conner said. He smiled, wide and relieved, and painfully honest. “Kon. He named me Kon-El.”

Tim nodded. “El, as in Kal-El, right? Kon-El, Kal-El?”

Conner wasn’t surprised to hear Clark’s Krytonian name from Tim’s lips. If Tim had to guess, Conner probably knew that none of this was news to Tim. “Yeah, House of El. Clark’s Kryptonian family.” Conner’s smile clenched a bit, at the corners, as if he was trying to restrain his expression a bit. “He gave me… part of his legacy. Or, I mean, let me have the other half of his legacy, as well.” He leaned forward, forearms laid lightly on the table in front of him. His eyes filtered off to the far corner of the pizza place, fogging over in reminiscence. Or something. “Kent. El. God…”

“God?” Tim snorted.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tim stuck his tongue out.

Conner breathed out, all at once, and slumped back against his seat. For the briefest moment, he seemed to look at Tim in abject wonder, a smile creeping onto his face. “Uh. Yeah, so. He’s.” He glanced away and scritched behind his left ear a few times. If Tim didn’t know better, he would have thought Conner’s ears were a bit pinker than usual.

Tim knew better.

Tim definitely knew better.

But still…

“Yeah, he’s—he’s accepting me, I guess,” Conner managed. He cleared his throat and looked back at Tim. “He’s really starting to accept me. I mean, it’s still hard and I still get frustrated, but he seems to really accept me?”

Tim’s phone buzzed. He didn’t give it his a moment of his attention, though. “Is that a question?”

“Uh, no. No, he does. Accept me.” Conner ducked his head a bit. His smile grew a bit and Tim’s pulse thundered too loud.

“Kon-El,” Tim mused. “Kon. Huh.”

“Is that a good huh or a bad huh?” Conner asked. There was that private little grin, again.

“Good, don’t worry,” Tim ducked his head, mirroring Conner’s previous action. His phone gave another muted buzz that went equally ignored. “I like it. It suits you.” There was something about the name. Of course, it was exotic. Different from what the average joe would have for a name. But there was something more to it. Especially having heard it said out loud, for the first time. Even more than that, Tim hadn’t  _said_ the name out loud, before, and it felt—tasted?—different. Unique.

It suited him.

Tim really liked it. Kon. It suited Conner, to a T. If it didn’t give Tim pause to suddenly start calling Conner something else, he felt like he’d be inclined to call him “Kon” instead.

But it  _did_ give him pause. It would be weird, probably, to start calling Conner “Kon,” anyway. Tim resolved to just continue calling him Conner. It was safer. They weren’t close or anything, anyway.

“What are you thinking?” Conner asked.

Tim’s phone gave a trio of insistent, muted buzzes. “Huh?” Tim glanced at Conner as he sat back and reached into his inner pocket. He didn’t pull out his phone, though. He just silenced it and kept his attention on Conner. Whatever it was could wait.

“What are you thinking?” Conner repeated.

“Nothing much,” Tim smiled and shrugged.

Conner glanced away. He seemed to glance away from Tim’s smile’s a lot. Either that or give a smile back, reflexively. Tim was endeared. Anyone would be, though. Right? Conner returned his gaze to Tim, smiling, and opened his mouth. At the same time, as Conner was about to say something, his phone went off. Tim and Conner both jumped a bit.

“Is that…” Tim gave a lopsided smile.

“Kryptonite, yeah,” Conner shrugged. “3 Doors Down.”

“So it’s Pops?” Tim laughed behind his hand.

“Yeah,” Conner ducked his head to check the phone. He hit decline and tapped at the onscreen keyboard. “I’m sure he’s just asking where I am.”

“Getting antsy about being alone at the gala? Or that you’re out and about without supervision?” Tim asked.

“The latter,” Conner snorted. “He’s used to covering press events, alone or in tandem with someone else. Wayne Gala or other. If he’s antsy, it’s because he can’t keep half an eye on me with me out and about. Let alone with you. No offense, but he’s up in arms about the whole thing. The ID debacle, I mean.”

“Bruce, too,” Tim shrugged.

Conner’s phone beeped at him and Conner’s eyes flicked down. He sighed and put his phone on the table. Tim leaned in to read it.

\--

**From: CK**

[Out? Out where?

[-CK]

\--

“He… signs his texts?” Tim whispered.

Conner snorted, then devolved into snickers. “Yeah. All the time. Every time.”

“That’s kind of lame,” Tim snorted, too.

“It really is.” Conner turned his eyes phoneward and wrote out [pizza], which he sent off in short order.

“How very terse of you,” Tim said.

“Eh, I like making Clark wonder if he’s pissed me off, again, sometimes. I don’t think he realizes how little I care about a lot of this parenting stuff. I mean, like, it doesn’t make me mad? Sometimes it gets exasperating, but structure is actually kind of… nice.”

“I could do with a bit less structure, myself,” Tim said.

“Yeah, but B is…”

“Is B,” Tim nodded. “Yeah, I see your point.

Conner’s phone went off again. Tim took a moment to appreciate that Conner went with initials for his contact list, as well. Though, maybe Clark had set up the contact list before putting the phone in Conner’s hands.

\--

**From: CK**

[You’re still at the pizza place?

[When are you coming back?

[-CK]

\--

“He really does,” Tim shook his head, almost fondly. “Does he know he can send separate texts instead of paragraphs?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Conner said.

“Well, Dick doesn’t know he can send more than three words in a text,” Tim joked.

Conner snorted. “Really?”

“No. I mean,” Tim tilted his head. “He usually sends a few words at a time, but then sends a few dozen texts at a time. Or else he’s going to send a series of novel-length texts. If he’s excited or bored, a bunch of short texts are most likely. But he’ll literally sit there and write out a couple hundred-word texts to Wally or, like… I don’t know. He’s wordy.”

“Sounds it.” Conner sent off a [soon], barely taking his eyes off Tim. It was a bit of a role reversal, Tim telling the story instead of Conner filling the empty air between them.

“Yeah, I mean. Here, let me…” Tim pulled his phone out. The screen lit up and Tim took a short double-take. “Well.” He turned the phone to show Conner the notifications. “I thought I’d have to open my texting app,” he said.

Conner’s eyes widened. He reached over and flicked through the notifications. “Are these all from him?”

“Guess so.” Just a small plethora of new texts from one Dick Grayson.

“Jeez,” Conner breathed.

“Yeah. That’s him.” Tim unlocked his phone and started scrolling through the new texts from his pseudo big brother. He shook his head, gently, at the panic and desperation bleeding through the texts.

\--

**From: DG**

[tim]

[tim]

[timmy]

[timmy pls]

[timmy im begging u]

[timmy save me]

[im dying]

[im dying timmy]

[dying]

[legitimately]

[look i even wrote it out]

[LEGITIMATELY]

[pls come back]

[if i]

[srry]

[if i drnk anymore vicki will tell gotham I was drnk fr the gala]

[tim the tabloids will be mean]

[theyll call m drunk]

[tim]

[tim]

[tim]

\--

Tim sighed, then turned the phone over to Conner. “I can’t even blame him for this. This,” Tim tapped the table a few times, his nail clicking against the tabletop, “ _this_ is what Vicki Vale does to people. Not that Dick’s evasive maneuvers help him, much, against reporters. If you’re excuse for not talking to a reporter is that you have to drink five glasses of champagne, well…”

Conner whistled. “Yeah. Wow.” He offered Tim his phone back. It didn’t immediately occur to Tim that he usually wasn’t comfortable handing his phone over, to anyone. He hadn’t even thought twice before handing his phone to Conner, though.

Tim nodded and accepted his phone back.

Conner was different. Safe.

Safer than Dick would be, anyway. But then, Dick was a special kind of nosy.

Tim was still receiving texts from Dick. He shook his head and turned his gaze down to compose a response. Conner’s phone started playing Kryptonite, again, which meant Clark. Tim scoffed, then drew on his inner Conner to respond to Dick.

\--

**From: Me**

[soon]

\--

Dick’s response texts were immediate, all-caps, and a little bit incomprehensible. Tim shook his head, turned off his screen, and put his phone away. “I miss being an only child,” he muttered.

Conner frowned down at his phone. It stopped ringing, Conner’s face smoothed out for a moment. But then his phone started to play Kryptonite a second time and Conner’s brow pulled into a pinch, again.

“Well?”

Conner glanced up at him. “Well what?”

“Are you going to pick it up?”

Conner shrugged. “I was thinking about just putting it on silent.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Just pick it up.”

Conner still looked conflicted, but he shrugged, again, and did as he was told. Albeit with a long moment of hesitation. “Hello?”

Tim leaned forward to listen in. He could just make out Clark, on the other end. “ _Conner? Why didn’t you pick up?_ ” If Tim was going to read into the tone, as little as he could hear it, he would have said that Clark sounded like he was a second from wringing his hands. Or wringing his hands, already.

“I did pick up,” Conner said.

Tim snorted. A short silence, on the other side of the phone, followed Tim’s amusement.

“ _You’re still_ _with Tim?_ ” Clark asked.

Conner raised both eyebrows and lifted his eyes from the tabletop, where they’d fixed themselves, and looked at Tim. “Yeah, I’m still with Tim.” He spoke slowly, enunciating. “Why?”

“ _Nothing, no. Never mind._ _I’d just… like you back. At the gala?_ ” Clark said. “ _It’s just…_ ”

“Yeah, no. That’s fine,” Conner sighed.

Tim sighed, too, then reached across the table for the slice that Conner hadn’t finished eating. He looked at it for a long moment while Conner continued to talk to Clark (“ _Conner, but when will you return_?” “Don’t worry s much, Clark.” “ _I’m serious_!”). After a moment, Tim started the process of finishing off the last slice of pizza, chomping down on it a bit forlornly.

Conner froze in his conversation for a long moment, apparently to watch Tim eat the already half-eaten pizza, then bid Clark goodbye, with lots of platitudes and “Okay, but maybe chill out”s. Parent panics were the worst form of panics.

Conner hung up when Tim was finishing off the garlic crust.

“So?” Tim asked.

“I think he just wants to use me as an excuse to not talk to people. Like. Other reporters and stuff. I’m not entirely sure he realizes that my presence causes more questions, not fewer. Less? Fewer.” Conner shrugged. It seemed to be his favourite expression.

Tim shrugged back. “Okay. Let’s go?”

“Yeah? Yeah, okay.”

\--

Later, hours later, after the gala when Tim could finally take a moment to catch his breath, he looked back at the pizza place, the smiles, the shrugs, the way he’d handed his phone in order to share his amusement about Dick’s texting, and everything else (including how Conner insisted on paying for the pizza, “I can afford a stupid pizza,” and all, even though Tim had invited Conner along)… Tim looked up at his ceiling, hands folded on his chest, and just.

Was it a date?

No, it wasn’t.

It just kind of felt a little like a date, and Tim hadn’t been on one of those in a very long time.

He resolved not to tell Steph about ditching the gala for pizza with Conner. Because it sounded like a date, she’d call it a date, and Tim wanted to just not think about it. He found that he was especially keen on not thinking about whether or not he  _wanted_ it to be a date.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the reasons I haven't been posting fic in awhile is because I've been working on a different YJ 'verse TimKon story and two admittedly similar HalBarry pieces (look, I like meet-cutes and superhero team-ups-of-convenience! it's a problem...).
> 
> The "Other TimKon" was giving me some trouble, so I went ahead and took a break from it to plot and write this. Fun fact: This is the first of this series that I plotted first. And it still feels meandering and weird! Hah!
> 
> After posting this, I'm going to take care of my inbox, because I've left stuff unanswered for a long while (but read everything like 3x, pfft). But! Let's have some opinions and thoughts. What would ya'll like to see next? More of this 'verse and this TimKon, Other TimKon, one of the HalBarrys (fun fact: the first of the HalBarry fics, I started before Rebirth and dropped a few times, BUT! in it I actually ad "both Wallys" before Rebirth gave me back "my Wally"), or Birdflash?
> 
> Also, where do ya'll think this should go next? I don't have an idea, right now, but I'm going to give it a think, later, and I'd love to hear your ideas! I can't promise anything (about where this will go, or what will be posted next), but I love ya'll to bits and really enjoy hearing from you!
> 
> Am I even being coherent? Half of this was written while the news was on in the background, haha. Ngl, I hate the news. But what can ya do?
> 
> If you see mistakes, feel free to point them out. I already plan to give this some once-overs and do some fixes, later, but help would be appreciated, since I'm eternally beta-less.


End file.
